I’ve always taken myself to be a man with loads of common sense: I moved out young, struggled to pay my bills on time, traveled through Asia, and learned what it meant to be lonely and in love at the same time. But, year after year the daunting task of paying my taxes comes knocking on my door and I can’t help but run for the hills.

I’ll admit freely and openly that I’ve fallen on my parents year after year. I pass off the task to their accountant and impatiently wait for the return to roll in. But, this year I’ve put my financial foot to the pavement and taken on the task.

I wonder sometimes if this whole process was something we all learned in school while I was smoking a joint behind the Subway or slumbering on my desk. Is this the vocabulary of the learned only?

“Exemptions”

“Deductions,” and

“Refunds”

All I’ve taken notice to over the years is the money that magically materializes in my chequing account.

Has this become the financial right of passage for our generation? Circumcision, bar mitzvahs, and tattoos all feel secondary to something so daunting. Is a man not truly a man until he can find “line 150” on his 2007 tax return?

If so then the state of my shoebox, full of a plethora of bills and forms all written in words that might sooner be hieroglyphics than the English language will give you the answer:

I’m still a starry-eyed, pre-pubescent boy with his first pubes, staring at the construction workers across the street unknowingly about to get his fore skin chopped off.

Taxes, be good to me.